


Your Own Medicine

by chainsaw_poet



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Fever, Hurt/Comfort, Poison, Science Experimentation, Sickfic, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-29
Updated: 2011-05-29
Packaged: 2017-10-19 21:58:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/205654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chainsaw_poet/pseuds/chainsaw_poet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has invented a compound that causes fevers and uses it on various people (John, Lestrade, Anderson, Mrs. Hudson, etc.) to document their reactions. He doesn't understand why that's wrong, but Mycroft has the most effective way to teach him: a taste of his own medicine, literally.</p><p>Written for a prompt at for the Fever Fic comment meme created by the lovely ariandes_string, which can be found here: http://ariadnes-string.livejournal.com/81197.html.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Your Own Medicine

There were two sets of photos on the table in Lestrade’s office: one from a body found last week in Hoxton, and another set, yellowed at the edges, from ten years before. Anderson had made the connection between the two. The same writing on the bodies, he’d said. So, the same killer. Wrong, of course. Someone was just going to great lengths to make it seem that way.

“Not the same,” he said quickly, stepping back from the table.

“Of course they’re the same!” Anderson snapped. “Look at the writing! The same words, even. The same misspelling!”

Infuriating. Imbecilic. Idiotic.

“Different handwriting. Look at the e’s – they’re formed differently. E’s are hard to get right. So the only point of interest,” Sherlock continued. “Is why someone is copying murders. Whoever it is should be marked down for lack of originality.” The assembled crowd – John, Lestrade, Donovan, Anderson – leant over the table, staring intently at the pictures.

And although he had the folded paper with the white powder in his pocket, he hadn’t really intended to do anything with it until that moment. It was seeing the Chelsea FC mug on the desk; so obviously Anderson’s, and full with hot, freshly made coffee. He didn’t need to test the substance. It would work perfectly, he knew, but it would be fun to see nevertheless. It would be good to be sure.

“He’s right.” Lestrade looked up, quickly followed by the others. “Not the same writing.”

“Of course I’m right.” Sherlock was holding the mug. He lifted it towards his lips, as if to take a sip, and then allowed it to be snatched from his hand. Anderson took a large gulp to prove the point, then pursed his lips.

“My coffee, thank you very much,” he snarled.

“Looks like it tastes awful anyway.” He’d have to work on that. “Now, the important thing – as you all should have realised – is not who killed the first victim, but who’s seen those photos.”

It took twenty tedious minutes for Lestrade to pull up the list of all requests to view the evidence files from the last two years. By that time, Sherlock was pleased to note, Anderson was looking decidedly pale. Grey, almost, and clammy. A vein was throbbing on the left side of his forehead. Interesting. As Lestrade spread the papers on the table and they all leant over, he swayed alarmingly and clutched at the side of the desk.

“Are you all right?” Sally Donovan’s tone was impatient, as usual, but her mouth had softened and Sherlock watched her extend, and then retract, a hand. John had no such reticence, taking Anderson’s wrist firmly but gently and feeling for a pulse.

“Definitely feverish,” he muttered. With a practised ease that Sherlock couldn’t help but admire, he counted beats against his wrist watch. “Pulse is elevated. Headache? Chills?” Anderson nodded to both, responding unconsciously to John’s professional manner. John turned to Lestrade.

“Probably the flu. There’s a nasty strain doing the rounds. It comes on suddenly. Someone should take him home.” Lestrade nodded.

“Drive him home, Sally.”

“Yes, sir.” As they left the room, she slipped her hand into the small of his back. Sherlock watched with a half-smile. Turning back to the desk, he saw John reaching for his jacket.

“Where are you going?”

“With them.” Left sleeve. “He’s ill” Right sleeve. “I’m a doctor.”

“He isn’t really ill.” He’d said that too fast. John’s eyebrows narrowed. Say something else. “It’s only the flu.”

“People die of the flu,” John said.

“Well, we can only hope.” John didn’t look at him as he marched out. “I was joking!”

The door slammed.

He’d have to do something about the taste.

*

It was only supposed to have been the once, and not even that, really. But once he’d found a way around the problem of the powder’s bitter taste, he’d been eager to check that his solution really worked. But finding a test subject was difficult. Lestrade was out of the question; he might be out of action for a few days, and that meant no new cases. And he couldn’t try it out on anyone when John was around. It didn’t do to have him running off playing doctor when Sherlock needed him. Would it be too cruel to lace Mrs Hudson’s sherry with it?

“What are you doing to that body?”

Molly Hooper had been a lot less help with his requests for corpses since the incident at the pool. She seemed to blame Sherlock for being used by a criminal mastermind as a way to get to John and himself. As such, he now found it easier to simply bypass her for most of his anatomical needs. Until, that was, she found out that he was in her lab and decided to interfere with his experiments.

“Is that acid?”

“Sulphuric acid,” he muttered. “Testing the effects of different acids on…”

“You can’t just treat a body like that!” she interrupted. “She’s someone’s sister, someone’s wife, someone’s daughter.”

“She’d been homeless for three years; hadn’t seen her family in five. You can tell by…”

“That’s not the point!” Molly pushed him out the way and zipped the bag back up. He was about to protest when, reaching into his pocket and finding a small packet there, he decided on a different tactic. Schooling his features in a suitable contrite expression, he placed a hand on her shoulder.

“You’re right, Molly. I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have… That is…” Carefully, he stumbled over the words, making his pause precisely pregnant. “Can I buy you a coffee to make up for it?”

Fifteen minutes later, accompanied by two cups of what passed for cappuccino in the St Bart’s canteen, Molly was explaining how she’d known something wasn’t right with Jim from the start. And how she knew it was wrong, but she couldn’t help but miss him, even though there wasn’t really a Jim to miss at all and…

“Does your coffee taste strange?” he asked. Molly stopped and looked puzzled.

“No. Does yours?”

“No, it’s fine. Great. You can carry on with…” She already had. Sherlock reached across the table and took her hand in what he knew to be a comforting manner. It was already trembling slightly. An unhealthy flush was beginning to graze her cheek bones. Interesting. It must have been working faster on her.

Two minutes later, very suddenly, Molly stopped talking and grabbed Sherlock’s hand tightly. Her eyes glazed over for an instant, and then she rubbed her other hand, shaking quite visibly now, against her right eye. Her mascara smudged slightly below her eyelashes.

“Are you all right?” he said.

“I don’t know,” she said softly, slumping forwards over the table and slipping her hand away.

“How do you feel?” If his tone was clinical, she didn’t notice.

“Not well. Achy. Shivery. My head…” She rubbed at both eyes this time. More smudges.

“Here, let me...” He placed the back of one hand against Molly’s forehead. She sighed. “You’re rather warm. Maybe you aren’t well.”

“Is your friend here? The doctor?” Sherlock shook his head.

“He works on Tuesdays.” In a surgery five minutes from Barts, and due to clock off in an hour. He’d probably come if Sherlock called him. But then he’d want to take Molly home and make sure she was all right. Not an option. “How about Mike Stamford? I saw him around earlier.”

“Yeah. That sounds good…” Molly was mumbling now, eyelids heavy as Sherlock half-helped her, half-dragged up from the chair. She leant heavily on him as they walked out of the, happily deserted, café. “Thanks, Sherlock. You’ve been really nice about this.”

“Don’t mention it,” he said.

Twenty minutes later, Stamford was putting Molly in a taxi with instructions about fluids and bed rest – and Sherlock had just started on the hydrochloric.

*

There was definitely not supposed to be a third time. Of course, there was some of the compound left over but it was tucked away in a cupboard in the kitchen that John had designated for Sherlock’s experiments and didn’t venture into himself. And Sherlock knew that it worked. He’d observed the effects. Perhaps he’d get around to writing up his results, if the mood ever took him. It rarely did. Experiments ceased to be interesting once they were complete.

If he’d ever really believed that his motivations were anything but selfish, he certainly didn’t anymore.

“When are you meeting Sarah?” Sherlock asked, handing over a cup of tea to a grateful John.

“Not until nine. She’s having dinner with a university friend first. Why do you ask?”

“No reason.”

“No plans?”

“More’s the pity.” He’d had plans. Dinner – Angelo’s, maybe – over which he could tell John all about the fraudster he’d been tracking for the past two days and was just now closing in on. And if his plans got ruined, well, then Sarah’s could too.

“I’m sure you’ll find something to do.” John took a long sip from his cup. “Mmmm. This is perfect. Thank you.” He leant back into the chair.

“Tired?”

“Exhausted.”

“Coming down with something?” John shook his head.

“Just a long day.” John launched into a story about an elderly patient of his who insisted on bringing her Yorkshire terrier to every appointment, even though the dog caused havoc in the waiting room. It was the sort of anecdote that Sherlock would have normally interrupted, bored, before dragging John off to see something more interesting. But tonight he sat quietly, sipping his own, unadulterated, tea, half-listening to John – enough to smile in the right places – but watching him more.

Watching as he began to rub at the back of his neck and roll his shoulders, as though both were stiffening up. Watching him sink more deeply into the chair, and fold his arms to draw his cardigan more tightly around himself.

“Is it cold in here?” John asked suddenly.

“No.”

“Right.” John paused for a second. “I’m freezing.” Without really noticing he was doing so, John pinched the bridge of his nose, screwing his eyes shut tight.

“You’ve got a headache.” Sherlock said, keeping his voice low. It wasn’t a question, but John wouldn’t be surprised at that.

“It’s come on all of a sudden.” John still hadn’t opened his eyes.

“Water? Paracetamol?”

“Both. Please.”

John had managed to pull himself a little more upright by the time that Sherlock returned, but he looked even worse than before: as though all the colour had been drained from his face. He took the glass of water and two white pills from Sherlock with unsteady hands, swallowing the latter awkwardly and with what looked like great effort. Sherlock took the glass back before he spilt it everywhere.

“You are coming down with something. You should lie down,” Sherlock said.

“I’ll be all right in a minute.”

But he wasn’t. Sherlock sat and watched, whilst being careful to look as though he wasn’t watching. John shuffled in the chair, closing and reopening his eyes, rubbing his temples and trying to get comfortable. He kept pulling at his clothes, as though his skin were too sensitive for them, and judging by the way he moved his limbs, they must have felt like lead. After what seemed like forever, but couldn’t have been more than thirty minutes, John spoke.

“Sherlock? Could you – take my temperature?” Sherlock didn’t need asking twice. As he pressed the back of one palm to John’s forehead, he felt the feverish heat radiating off him. The feverish heat for which Sherlock was responsible. John wasn’t going anywhere that evening.

John made a sound somewhere between a cough and a laugh.

“What?”

“I meant for you to get the thermometer from my bag.”

“I can tell you’re running a temperature just by looking at you. Even this -” He stroked his hand across John’s forehead. “Was unnecessary. But if you insist, I can fetch it.” John shook his head.

“No, it’s fine. Knew I had a fever anyway. Can’t stop shivering.” Closer to John now, Sherlock could see the tiny spasms of muscle beneath John’s skin. It was fascinating; like watching electricity flowing below the epidermis. He almost shivered himself. “Could you call Sarah? Her number’s in my phone.”

“Of course.”

“She’ll probably be at dinner by now – might not answer. You’ll have to leave a message.”

“Which I can do.”

“Yes, I know. Sorry.”

“Don’t apologise. Just go to bed.”

Sarah didn’t answer her phone, so he left a message - brief but polite – explaining that John was ill and had to cancel their date for the evening. He added that he thought John probably wouldn’t be at work tomorrow, so she might want to look for someone to cover his shift. He assumed she would try to call back later, to see how John was doing, and ask if she should come over – so he turned John’s phone off.

Upstairs in his bedroom, John had cocooned himself in his duvet, which made it rather easy for Sherlock to sit down on the mattress next to him.

“Answer phone,” he said softly, anticipating John’s question.

“If she calls…”

“Naturally.” Sherlock set the basin of cold water on the bedside table, submerged the cloth in it, and wrung it out. Gently, he brushed back John’s hair – getting long again, six weeks since he’s had a haircut – and laid it over his forehead. A muffled sort of groan came from the blankets. “Too cold?”

“No, just right.” John sighed. “I was probably due for a nasty dose of the flu. Haven’t had I since I was doing my clinical training. Was bloody horrible then, but this feels worse.”

“Is there anything I can do?” Sherlock asked. “I want to help.” Funny. That was the sort of thing John usually said.

“God, no. I’ve had you run around enough already. There’s nothing much you could do anyway. I just need to sleep it off.”

John closed his eyes; he would be asleep in less than five minutes, but it was close to sunrise before Sherlock left the room.

*

It shouldn't be possible for a body to hurt this much. Especially not his body. There weren’t enough muscles, enough nerve endings to register this much pain. His joints felt like they were made of ground glass, bones catching and screeching as they scraped against each other when he attempted even the smallest of movements. His eyes felt too big for their sockets, as if at any moment the pressure of his head might cause them to implode. Opening them to try to relieve the pain had been a bad idea; the objects in his bedroom seemed to warp in front of them, pulsing larger and smaller, and making him feel nauseated.

But the heat was the worst part. One minute being stiflingly hot, throwing off all the bedclothes, and the next drenched in chilled sweat, shivering so hard that his teeth chattered. Then he’d snatch up the covers and wrap himself tightly in them, never actually getting properly warm despite the thick duvet, until the next cycle began.

Currently, he was too hot. He lay like a starfish on the bed, limbs outstretched and as far away from each other as possible. Even brushing the cotton of the sheets was nearly too much to bear. For one part of his skin to touch another would be torture.

He’d had the flu twice in his life: once as a schoolboy, which he barely remembered, and again in his mid-twenties, when the cocaine starved off the worst of the symptoms. Neither time had felt as bad as this. The only thing this was comparable to was coming off the drugs. But that had been pain with a purpose; teaching his body it could go without. This pain was something else entirely.

He knew, of course, who and what was behind it. He’d constructed the properties of the drug meticulously. And he could only think of one other person who’d be willing to use it.

“A taste of my own medicine?” he gasped, without opening his eyes, to the man who standing in his bedroom doorway. The fever hadn’t dulled his senses. Instead, every footstep through the flat had felt like a jolt of electricity in his skull.

“Quite literally, Sherlock. You always were careless with your chemistry sets. The right compound was so easy to find.”

Mycroft was wringing out a flannel. Sherlock could hear the droplets of water crashing into the basin. It sounded like Niagara Falls. Like a small child, he pressed the heels of his hands into his ears.

“Quieter,” he mumbled.

“My apologies.” Mycroft sounded anything but sincere. Yet he was gentle as he wiped the cloth across Sherlock’s burning cheeks and forehead, and down across his neck and chest, being careful to apply as little pressure as possible.

“Couldn’t I just have had a talking to?” Sherlock whispered, the droplets of water trickling over his hot, pale skin.

“If you’d stopped at the forensics officer. Or even the pathologist.” Oh yes, Molly. She’d been off work for over a week. Mycroft was speaking again. “You can’t treat people like puppets. Sherlock.”

“Fine thing for you to say. All you do all day is pull strings.”

“Not with poison.” There was a silence. “You hurt him.”

“I knew it wouldn’t do him any real harm. I’d tested it.”

“You made him feel like this; made him suffer. You don’t want to be someone who makes people suffer.” A hand pressed against Sherlock’s shoulder. Believe me, it said. I know.

“I just wanted him to stay.” He hadn’t meant to say those words. Not to anyone, but especially not to Mycroft. The fever was making him talk. As he exhaled, he could feel the heat creeping away and a chill climbing back up his spine. Sherlock tugged hard at the covers, which felt impossibly heavy, until he was aware of a set of hands that were not his own tucking the bedclothes around his body.

“I have informed Dr Watson that you are unwell. He left the surgery three minutes ago; you can expect him in another five.” There was the sound of the bowl of water being retrieved from the floor. “Be a good patient, at least.”

Forty-five seconds later the front door opened and closed, as quietly as possible.

He must have drifted off to sleep in the minutes it took John to get to Baker Street, because he woke up at the touch of a cool hand against his forehead. He blinked his eyes open as John’s steady surgeon’s fingers ran over his cheeks and down towards his throat, gently examining his glands.

“Hello, you,” John said, as Sherlock tried to focus on him. “I got a text from Mycroft; he said you weren’t well. Did you see him?”

Sherlock shook his head falsely. “Must have been asleep.”

“I thought you’d avoided catching this off me,” John continued.

“It's my fault,” Sherlock murmured.

“‘Course it isn’t,” John replied. “It’s one of those things. These winter viruses are pretty unstoppable. But if it’s the same thing I had, the worst is over in two days.” He was busying himself with something on the floor. Probably getting something from his doctor’s bag. A thermometer, perhaps. Or some painkillers.

“You should be at work.”

There was the familiar sound of dripping water again. Not his doctor’s bag.

“Sarah gave me the rest of the day off. She told me it was least she could do after you looked after me. Said you wouldn’t hear of her doing a single thing. I think you impressed her, to be honest. She didn’t have you down as the nurturing sort.”

The cloth on his head felt as though it were made of ice – but it was worth it for the few seconds before it had made contact with his skin, when John had stroked back Sherlock’s damp, matted hair from his face. He shivered and sighed.

“I’m sorry,” John said. “I know you’re cold. But you’ll feel better if we get your temperature down a little bit.” He patted Sherlock’s arm through the barrier of blankets. “I’ll go and fetch some paracetamol. You haven’t taken anything?” A shake of the head. “All right, then. Be right back.”

As John’s footsteps left the room, Sherlock felt two droplets trickling down his cheek. They were too hot to be from the cloth. He brushed them away, squeezing his eyes shut tight, pretending to be asleep when John returned.

“Come on, Sherlock, wake up and take these.” John’s voice was earnest and sincere. “It’ll make you feel better.”

No, it won’t, he thought. Not at all.


End file.
